Five Times Bruce Gave Advice
by Red Bess Rackham
Summary: Five times Bruce gave someone some advice, and one time he took some himself.
1. Clint

**Disclaimer:** For entertainment purposes only.

**A/n:** Thank you to the gorgeous ladies at **The Beta Branch** for their feedback and edits, and also to the amazing and sensational **stars_inthe_sky** for her mad beta skills. Remaining mistakes are all me. ;)

Timelines for these are a mixed bag, all post-Avengers but to varying degrees. Enjoy!

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><p>I.<p>

Despite the fact that the Tower had not one but several working, high-tech dishwashers, Bruce was up at one in the morning doing the dishes by hand in the generously-sized kitchen sink. He didn't do this all the time, though, whenever he did, Tony always made a face and told him to stop wasting his time. But Bruce liked the repetitive motion of cleaning the various objects and the quiet while he worked, as the team casually made themselves scarce (though at this time of night, no one was around anyway).

Tonight, he had intended to turn into bed quite a while ago and do the dishes first thing in the morning before the others were up, but after reading quietly for a while, he hadn't felt at all tired.

Bruce turned over a colorful plate to scrub at the back before giving it a quick rinse and setting it to dry on the rack to his right. After several rounds of poker that night, the rest of the team had dispersed to their own corners of the Tower. Well, those that were here, anyway; Thor was off in Asgard, Tony had business in Washington for the next few days, and Clint was…somewhere. Bruce wasn't actually sure about that one.

As if summoned by Bruce's thoughts alone, though, the archer appeared from around the corner and joined Bruce in the kitchen. His arms and face were spotted with bruises and healing cuts, but he nodded a greeting at Bruce, seemingly unaffected by his visible injuries.

"Don't let Tony see you doing that," Clint said, heading for the fridge to grab a beer.

Bruce chuckled. "He's, uh, in Washington until next week, so I won't have to be lectured about refusing to use what's been provided." He set another plate on the rack with the rest.

Wordlessly, Clint retrieved a towel from one of the drawers and began drying the dishes. Bruce wanted to ask him how his mission (or wherever he was the past few days) had gone and if he was all right, but the expression on Clint's face was closed-off and hard. The physicist settled for shooting him a concerned sideways look.

Clint frowned, hearing the question on Bruce's tongue without it being asked. "I'm fine," he said shortly.

Bruce didn't press further; instead, he simply slipped back into the routine of washing.

Neither of them spoke for a good fifteen minutes after that. Bruce continued washing; Clint dried and put things away. The longer they worked, the more Bruce could tell Clint was conflicted, silently debating something, and Bruce waited him out. Sure enough, when there was just a handful of silverware left to clean, Clint broke the silence.

"They look at me like I might explode," he said, and his voice was tight and pained. He didn't bother to hide it, nor the stormy look in his bright blue eyes. "Like they think I might still have _him _in me."

Bruce nodded. _S.H.I.E.L.D._

Clint hadn't spoke of it much (nor had Natasha—or Steve, who apparently now worked for S.H.I.E.L.D, too), but from the handful of debriefings Bruce had attended, the level of mistrust that surrounded Clint ever since the Loki incident was evident. It didn't come from Fury or Hill, and some of Clint's fellow agents seemed relieved to have him back, but there was a wary edge to many of the others. It wasn't hard to imagine that their thoughts were centered on the agents Clint had killed under Loki's influence.

Clint himself was excellent at hiding how he felt, but Bruce could guess how terrible it must be for Clint to try to recover from what happened. He knew the feeling awfully well.

"And I can't…" Clint clenched his jaw and raked his fingers through his hair, his other hand clutching the towel. "What I remember, I…" He shook his head, and didn't bother finishing his sentence.

"Did the therapist tell you it would get better?" asked Bruce softly.

The archer exhaled, "Yeah."

Bruce hesitated before replying, but Clint wasn't the type who would want the truth sugar-coated, even if it stung. Besides, being stared at like he was a grenade that could blow at any second? Bruce was an _expert_ on what that felt like.

"It probably won't," said Bruce. He met the archer's gaze. "The dreams and fragments don't always go away. They might, um—they might never stop looking at you like that. But you'll survive. _You_ will keep going and survive." He returned to scrubbing the silverware in the sink, adding, "It's not that _it_ gets better. It's that _you_ get better at living with it."

For a moment, Bruce wondered if he'd misread the situation—maybe Clint _had_ been looking for comfort instead of brutal honesty—and he opened his mouth to apologize. Instead, when he looked up, he watched Clint's shoulders sag with relief. The archer nodded slowly in understanding.

"Thank you," he said earnestly.

They barely spoke as they finished up the dishes, but the silence was comfortable.


	2. Steve & Thor

II.

Bruce was enjoying a good book in the common room of the Tower, when Tony barreled past him, leaping over the coffee table and sprinting down the hall towards the kitchen. The physicist raised his eyes briefly at the disturbance and smiled. The cat-and-mouse game of laser tag between Thor, Steve, Tony, and Clint had been going for approximately four hours straight by this point.

He'd opted not to get involved in this particular war, seeing as how the _last_ time they'd all played had lasted seven and a half hours (there'd also been one broken wrist, several pieces of broken furniture, an endless number of bruises, a hole in the ceiling of the twelfth floor, and broken windows on the fourth).

As far as Bruce could discern, Tony and Clint had formed a "regular human" alliance against the demi-god and the super soldier, and they were currently winning.

Thor burst around the corner a moment later, panting, sweating, and inexplicably spattered in pink paint. Bruce's eyebrows slid up in a silent question.

"Which way did he go?" Thor asked between breaths.

Before Bruce could answer, Steve came from the same direction Thor had a moment ago, and he was streaked all over with black paint, as though he'd been sprayed with ink from a fire hose. (Oh, Bruce was _so_ looking forward to the stories later.)

"Don't go to the eighth floor from the stairs," Steve warned his companion.

Thor frowned and glanced down at himself. "Or the fifth, from the elevators."

Bruce didn't bother to hide the amused smile that spread across his face. It was so very like Tony and Clint to start booby-trapping the Tower. He silently decided he would remain in the common room area with his book until the war was over, lest he—or the Other Guy—get caught in the crossfire.

Steve turned to Bruce pleadingly. "I know you're not supposed to help, but which way did he go?"

The physicist looked between the two men and their plastic guns. "You're right," he replied with another smile. "I definitely can't help you." He returned his attention to his book… but silently moved one finger to point in the direction of the elevators.

Thor and Steve's paint-spattered faces cracked into twin grins.

"Too bad," said Steve.

"I thank you anyways, my friend," said Thor.

They exchanged excited sideways glances and took off for the elevators.

When Tony howled in defeat a few seconds later, Bruce covered his mouth and laughed into his hand.


	3. Natasha

III.

Bruce brought his lunch down to the lab so he could eat while he tinkered and worked out some calibrations on his computer.

_His_ lab—it still made him smile, even this many months later. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the idea that all these toys were his to play with, no matter how many times Tony assured him these things now belonged to him.

He adjusted his glasses and peered closer at the set of numbers on the screen. He was about to make the appropriate corrections to a couple of discrepancies when his cell phone jangled noisily. The number wasn't familiar, but had a recognizable SHIELD encryption on it, so he answered.

"Hello?"

The first thing he heard was a lot of gunfire and his heart skipped a beat.

_"Bruce_," came Natasha's voice, and Bruce frowned with worry, because her voice was strained and stressed. "_How do I shut down a particle accelerator?_"

There was a loud crackling noise, followed by what sounded like more gunfire.

"Are you okay?" asked Bruce. "Where are you?"

_"Switzerland,"_ Natasha bit out loudly over the noise in the background.

"The LHC?" Bruce questioned and Natasha grunted in assent. The physicist frowned. "Do you need back-up?"

"_Particle accelerator! Shut down!_" Natasha snapped. "_Now!_"

Bruce raked his hand through his curls, and swiftly began talking Natasha through what she needed to do. He spoke fast and clearly, and she gave him calm but curt replies, occasionally getting cut off only to return a few seconds later, panting.

"Should I, uh, be concerned here?" Bruce questioned.

"_Just some wacko trying to make a black hole to swallow Europe,_" Natasha replied.

"Um," said Bruce.

Natasha barely spat out a brisk "_thanks"_ before she hung up.

When she was back at the Tower two days later, she assured him that Europe had fortunately _not_ been sucked up in a giant black hole, thanks in part to his world-saving advice.


	4. Tony

IV.

It had been raining all day, but after the sun went down, the rain finally let up and the clouds cleared. Bruce ventured up to the Tower's roof, telescope in tow, hoping to see some stars. The air was pleasantly cool, thick with that beautiful after-the-rain smell. Bruce inhaled deeply and set up his chair. Right after he'd made himself a mug of spicy tea and settled down for a few hours of star-gazing, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

Bruce shook his head when he saw the caller: Tony_._ His friend was currently in Washington on a business trip—one that he had whined about having to take in the first place, as it was apparently to be full of "mindless crap" and "the type of meetings that make you want to stick a spoon in your eye just so you don't have to sit through it any longer." For the past three days, he'd been texting Bruce fairly constantly about how bored he was. The fact that he was calling meant he'd probably reached his threshold.

Before Bruce had the chance to greet the billionaire, Tony spoke first, sounding desperate.

_"Tell me there's a mission you urgently need me for."_

The physicist leaned back in his chair. "Did anyone contact you about one?"

_"No…"_ Tony answered reluctantly.

"Then, uh, sorry." A cool breeze tickled at Bruce's neck and he pulled the collar of his jacket up a little bit.

Tony sighed. _"Can't you _lie_ and say there is one anyways, so I can get out of this hellhole?"_

Bruce laughed. "Come on, it can't be that bad—"

_"It _is_, oh God, is it _ever_." _

"And besides, I was there when Pepper told you how important this trip was."

_"Don't remind me,"_ Tony grumbled. Bruce imagined he was pinching the bridge of his nose with irritation at the memory—Pepper had been more insistent than usual, especially as she had a trip of her own to make to Hong Kong the same five days. _"I have this stack of folders on the table I'm supposed to get through before I get back."_

The physicist smirked. _Ah._ He'd guessed right: Tony was dead bored, surrounded by busywork, and dying for a distraction.

"So you called me?"

_"Well, Natasha won't answer. Or Clint. I suppose they're probably busy _together_…"_

Bruce rolled his eyes and took a sip of tea.

_"And I tried Steve, but the first thing he did was ask if it was an absolute emergency, and when I said not exactly, he hung up,"_ Tony continued, sounding mildly insulted. _"I just wanted to know how the mission to find his buddy the Terminator is going…"_

The physicist chuckled as he set his mug back down. "So I was your fourth choice?"

"Well," said Tony. "I figured you would just tell me to get back to work. I wanted to avoid that."

"Unfortunately, that's true," Bruce admitted with an amused smile.

Tony groaned loudly. _"But it's so _boring_."_

The physicist shook his head as a plane rumbled by in the sky somewhere overhead. "It's _your_ company, Tony. You have to do _some_ of the work sometimes."

_"No, I shouldn't—that's why I hired Pepper! So I wouldn't have to do work anymore. I seriously am going to put my head through a wall if I have to sit through one more goddamn meeting and sign another pointlessly wordy sheet of paper."_

"Tony..."

_"Bruce. Bruce, don't bring me dooown, Bruce!"_ Tony began to sing and Bruce covered his eyes with his hand.

"Tony. _Tony._"

The billionaire kept singing, and Bruce silently cursed Clint for introducing Tony to ELO.

"Tony…I'll call Pepper."

Tony ceased his wailing—"singing"—immediately, and Bruce could hear the frown in his friend's voice over the phone when he said, _"You wouldn't do that."_

"I would." He fought to keep the smile out of his own voice.

_"You're my friend. She'll kill me."_

"And that's why I'll call her if you don't finish your paperwork. _Because_ I am your friend."

_"You're an accessory to murder."_ Tony huffed and sighed dramatically. Bruce could picture him pacing with restless energy.

"The sooner you get it done, the sooner you can come home," Bruce reminded him.

The billionaire swore under his breath. _"See, this is why I wanted to get a hold of Clint. He would've helped me procrastinate properly. Fine, I'm going. I'm doing it. Are you happy now?"_

Bruce chuckled softly. "Goodbye, Tony. See you in a few days."

_"Yeah, yeah." Click._


	5. Bucky

V.

Bruce was the only one home when Jarvis informed him that Steve was on his way, with Bucky Barnes in tow. The physicist wasn't exactly sure what to expect; Steve had found Bucky and brought him back to the Tower several months earlier, but the former assassin had had a lot of difficulty adjusting to his new life without Hydra controlling him. He would lash out or break down or disappear, and sometimes Steve would go after him or try to help him only to be refused and return empty-handed. Sometimes, he was successful at getting through to Bucky and could bring him home. Sometimes, Bucky came back on his own, drowning in guilt and confusion, clinging to the lifeline that was Steve.

This time, Bruce wasn't sure what had transpired. As far as he knew, Steve had gone out on a made-up recon mission with his friend to try to give something Bucky to do. Clearly, something had gone wrong, if they were rushing back in the middle of the afternoon and Steve was telling Jarvis to have Bruce meet him outside the Tower's infirmary.

"What happened?" Bruce asked the captain immediately, the moment he rounded the corner.

Steve looked terrible. He was filthy from head to toe, bruised and bloody, and his uniform was scuffed and ripped. At Bruce's questioning glance, Steve gestured to the infirmary, where Bruce could see Bucky sitting on one of the beds far towards the back, hunched over.

"Steve, _what happened?_" Bruce repeated, worry fluttering in his chest.

"We were—it was fine, and then he…" Steve shook his head and scrubbed his hand over his face. "The mission was fine, and then something—I don't know—he was _triggered_, and he lost it." He shook his head again, exhaling a shaky breath. "He was doing so good, he was _fine_—for months, he hasn't—and then he…"

"Slow down," Bruce said softly. "Are you both okay?"

Steve tossed an anxious look over his shoulder at Bucky, then nodded. "Now, yeah. We barely made it out of there."

Bruce couldn't recall seeing Steve more agitated and upset than this moment. The captain paced and struggled to find the words he wanted before giving up and sighing instead. As he turned on his heel, Bruce saw a deep red gash cut into the captain's back. His uniform was covered in dirt, grime, and rust-colored stains.

"Whoa, Steve, are you—" he began, but Steve hastily waved him off.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he promised. "I kind of got dragged, and the blood smeared—it's not deep. I'm fine." Steve was pacing again, unable to stand in one spot, unable to keep his hands still.

Bruce stepped in front his friend and caught his anxious gaze. He was going to need a whole lot more details of what exactly went wrong on the practice mission, but first they needed to deal with Bucky. "What about him?"

Steve sighed through his nose. "The cut on his head needs stitches. But I couldn't—he wouldn't let me—" He clenched his jaw and glanced away from Bruce. "I got him back here. I didn't know what else to…"

Bruce nodded in understanding. "Okay. What do you need me to do?"

"Can you… could you…" Steve waved one hand around helplessly and raked the other through his filthy hair. He was at a complete loss and visibly shaken.

Bruce swallowed. _What the hell happened out there?_

"Help him," Steve managed, his voice small and hurt and scared. The physicist's heart ached to hear that voice coming from Steve, one of the strongest men he knew.

He reached out and placed a comforting hand on the captain's shoulder. "I'll do what I can."

Steve nearly buckled right there, but instead he gave a nod and eased into the nearest chair. Bruce took a deep breath and into the Tower's infirmary.

For the most part, Bruce supposed, Bucky had been doing well. Of course, "well" was a relative term when it came to a former assassin, who'd been brainwashed to hell, cryogenically frozen periodically, tortured, and psychologically manipulated for decades.

In the last couple of months, according to Steve, Bucky was getting back to his old self most of the time. There was still an obvious and understandable heaping amount of PTSD and sudden violent outbursts accompanying that old self, but after the literal hell the guy had been through, no one blamed him. Tony had taken to affectionately calling him Scrambled Eggs, and Steve glowered and ordered Tony to stop, but Bucky seemed to actually find it just as funny as Tony did.

And yet, every once in a while…something broke. Like today.

Bruce eased open the infirmary door. Bucky was seated on one of the beds, holding a bloody rag to his head. He looked up at the physicist but didn't appear to be angry or scared. Still, from previous experience, Bruce felt it was better to be cautious. He advanced slowly.

"Bucky, it's Bruce. You remember me?" Bruce held his hands out, palms up and open. "Bruce Banner."

Bucky heaved an exhausted sigh that seemed to scrape the very bottom of his soul. "Yeah, 'course I remember you." His smile was empty and sharp as razors when he added, "Right now, at least."

Bruce walked towards Bucky slow and casual, but he was alert and ready to react should Bucky abruptly lash out. "Heard you needed stitches."

Bucky nodded sullenly.

The physicist moved to the cupboard and gathered up the necessary supplies. He set them out on a small table with wheels and rolled it over to where Bucky sat. Every move he made was slow and deliberate; he'd seen the former assassin fully coherent, he'd seen him when he was the deadly Winter Soldier, he'd seen him when he was screaming and broken, and everything in between. Especially after a violent episode (which, Bruce could only assume, given the condition Steve was in, had occurred earlier today), Bucky was often confused, nervous, and off-kilter. The question was which state he was in now.

Bruce took a seat next to Bucky on the bed.

"May I?" The physicist gestured to the bloody cloth Bucky was still pressing to his head.

Bucky nodded again and peeled the soaked rag from his skin.

The wound was deep enough to require a handful of stitches. It ran along close to Bucky's hairline, but luckily it seemed to have stopped bleeding for the moment.

"Are you feeling okay? Dizzy, nauseated?" Bruce asked as he prepared the tools he needed to stitch Bucky up. "You probably lost a lot of blood."

Bucky shook his head and mumbled, "Fine." He chewed his lip and seemed to be on the verge of saying something more, but apparently he thought better of it and swallowed the words down.

Bruce reached for some anesthetic, but Bucky shook his head.

"Don't bother."

"Are you sure? This is going to hurt," Bruce warned, as he held up the alcohol soaked cotton he needed to clean Bucky's injury.

The other man gave a terrible, bitter laugh. "No, it won't."

Bruce went about cleaning and stitching Bucky up, and the other man remained still and silent. The only indication that he was in any sort of discomfort was the way his hand would occasionally tighten on the edge of the bed, and he trailed his thumbnail back and forth against the white sheets. He kept his eyes cast down almost the entire time.

"I couldn't stop," Bucky croaked, his voice quiet and raw, when Bruce was nearly finished. "I could feel it…but I couldn't stop it. And it took over. It took over like it used to when they would…when they'd put me in the chair. I didn't want to, but I _couldn't stop_."

Bruce's hands stilled as he listened to Bucky's pained confession. His stomach churned because he knew, he _knew_ _exactly_ how that felt—how to be present and not in control. Terrified and buried in your own skin, feeling horrible things happen because of you.

"How do you…" Bucky swallowed and fought for the right words, still not looking at Bruce.

The physicist took his hands away from Bucky's head and took a deep breath. "You have to separate 'you' from…'not you'. _You_ are not the one who killed and murdered. _You _aren't the one who caused destruction and pain. They created something that did that, but it wasn't _you_."

Tears shimmered in Bucky's eyes as he raised them slowly to meet Bruce's.

"_You_ are the guy who went for beers with Steve Rogers and went to war with Captain America. _You_ are the guy who had a family, and a sense of humor, and who stands for something," he continued softly. "The thing inside that comes out is what does those horrible things, not you. Somehow, someday, you'll find a way to control it—conquer, master it. In the meantime…you just have to understand, _really _understand, that it's not _really you_."

Bruce thought his advice was probably a little rich coming from a guy who fought his own overwhelming self-loathing, guilt, and anger pretty much daily, but it _was_ true and something they both needed to hear. Something they both needed to be reminded of, often.

Bucky turned away, and Bruce waited for him to absorb his words. He hoped they helped, but it was hard to forget just how messed-up Bucky was. Words, however well-meaning, seemed far too small and paltry to be any sort of help in this situation. Bruce could only relate so far with what Bucky was experiencing.

Bucky turned back, and Bruce gently resumed his work on the injury. After several moments of contemplative silence, he snipped off the thread.

"It's not…really me," Bucky finally echoed. He faced Bruce, and the other man was struck by how lost and frightened Bucky looked in that moment—and how _young_, for everything he had been through. "Does he know that too?"

Bruce glanced past Bucky to where Steve was peering in the infirmary window, his dirt-smeared face lined with anxiety and exhaustion.

The physicist cracked a small smile. "Believe me, he knows that more than anyone."


	6. And One Time He Took It

+1. And One Time He Took It

When Bruce came down with the flu, the others were surprised. The serum that had created the Hulk certainly had its positive side effects, but avoiding sickness altogether wasn't one of them.

"I assume," he had explained, "based on, uh, previous experience, that I could never die from something _terminal_, but it doesn't exactly stop me from getting the common cold."

"Or flu, apparently," Tony had said.

The physicist spent the morning in bed, battling a fever and unable to keep any form of breakfast down. The rest of the team was out on a mission, having reluctantly left Bruce behind. He waved them on, however—he was of no use in his condition, and the world, as usual, needed saving.

Sometime in the early afternoon, Jarvis informed Bruce that he had visitors. The physicist grunted in response, and he had almost fallen asleep again when there was a soft knock at his bedroom door.

"Hey," Darcy greeted a moment later as she pushed open the door. "We heard you were ill."

Behind her, Jane gave Bruce a small wave. The pair of them had their hands full with boxes, bottles, and bags as they walked across the carpet. Over the past few months, Jane and Darcy had become near permanent fixtures at the Tower, and Bruce figured it was only a matter of time before Tony convinced them to move in.

"No," Bruce mumbled hazily. "Don't come in—I'll only infect you, too." He attempted a weak smile, which probably came off more of a grimace.

"We'll take the risk," Darcy insisted.

"We're here to help you feel better," Jane added.

"I'm okay, really—I'm fine to be alone." He coughed and moaned.

Darcy chuckled and rolled her eyes.

Jane pointedly ignored his vague, mumbled protests. "You know, it's okay to let yourself be helped sometimes."

"Yeah," Darcy nodded. "We're here to take care of you in your time of need. What's family for, right?" She winked at him and continued, "Besides, I happen to be an expert in taking care of sick people, and Jane is an expert at _being _sick. Every time she stops sleeping, eating, and functioning like a human—"

"Hey!" Jane objected.

"She gets a cold—Jane, don't deny it."

The scientist still had her mouth open to complain, but then shrugged. "Okay, she might have a point."

Darcy smiled triumphantly. "So, we're good at this. Or at least I am. Now sit back, and let us do the taking-care-of. That is an order," she added fiercely, tossing him another good-natured wink.

Bruce felt a smile of his own creep over his tired features.

The younger girl set down her armful of supplies one at a time on the bedside table: Kleenex with lotion, a bottle of apple juice, packages of meds, a box of crackers, two books, five DVDs, and a bottle of hand sanitizer. Jane followed with the basket of baked goods she was carrying and a six-pack of ginger ale.

"I didn't make them," she said hastily, gesturing to the muffins and croissants poking out from under a blue cloth. "Pepper ordered them. I'm just—we're delivering." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"They're good," Darcy smiled.

Jane ducked her head in embarrassment. "Yeah, we…sort of sampled them on the way here."

Bruce felt a laugh rumble in his chest, and, after so many hours of being cooped up and utterly miserable, it felt good. And, despite his earlier remarks when they'd arrived, he was already glad for their company.

Darcy and Jane pulled a pair of chairs from the living room into Bruce's bedroom and set up on either side of his bed. Jane made sure to keep a cool cloth at the ready for his burning forehead, while Darcy kept Netflix and the DVDs she'd brought going on the TV. Bruce drifted in and out of sleep, and, by early evening, the girls had him sitting up and sipping chicken noodle soup.

Sometime later, the team returned home, each looking a bit worse for the wear. They quietly checked in on Bruce; his fever had broken by then, and he was dozing comfortably.

"How's he doing?" Steve whispered. Natasha, Clint, Tony, and Thor crowding past the doorway behind him.

Darcy gave them a thumbs-up and pushed play on the next episode of _Mythbusters_. To Bruce's sleeping form, she whispered, "See, I told you. We're good at taking care of people."

**-end-**

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><p><strong>An:** Thanks for reading! Any and all feedback appreciated. :)**  
><strong>


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